On Rising: A Lyrical Photo Essay
Canon building is Empire building. Canon defense is national defense. Canon debate, whatever the terrain, nature, and range[,] … is the clash of cultures. And all of the interests are vested.
— Toni Morrison, from “Unspeakable Things Unspoken: The Afro-American Presence in American Literature”
So it begins, as it always does, with a movement of breath. Of heart. Of feet. The language of the unheard, an embodied pure vernacular, moves through the body politic, appealing to be known.
To be known in order to be named. For there are so many who are unnamed until their names become a symbol of a nation’s disavowal. Until their names, incanted, become a spell against erasure.
Baltimore is burning. But in Chicago, Dante Servin, the officer who fatally shot unarmed 22-year old Rekia Boyd in the back of the head is freed on a technicality.
In his decision, Judge Porter writes that reckless manslaughter, the crime with which the officer had been charged, was insufficient. That Boyd’s killing was “an act … so dangerous it is beyond reckless … It is intentional and the crime, if any there be, is first-degree murder.”
But there is no murder charge. No reprimand. No apology. Instead:“Any reasonable person, any police officer especially, would’ve reacted in the exact same manner that I reacted,” [Servin] said. “And I’m glad to be alive. I saved my life that night. I’m glad that I’m not a police death statistic. Antonio Cross (the man at whom Servin was aiming) is a would-be cop killer, and that’s all I have to say.”
At the 35th Street police station, the crowd I’m standing in grows. And the speakers, one after another, tell their stories. And they are all the same story about the way our people are denied justice, and that is why we are here.
And that is also why when we march, we go south, to the neighborhoods where our people stay.
And the street turns yellow as the light floods it, and our sneakered feet make litany on the pavement. And we chant, and our heartbeats rise with the chanting:
We do this for Marissa. We do this for Tanesha. We do this for Mike Brown. We do this for Rekia.
And the people of the south side in their quiet homes come out from the dark where they’ve gathered to pass the night, out into the echoing streets to see what is happening.
We do this for Damo. We do this till We Free Us.
All of the interests are vested. And all of the vests are bulletproof. But none of us is.
For it is certain something is happening. And though no one can say for sure what that something is, it is not consent. It is not is silence. We are sick of silence, how it descends on us like a blanket of bad air. Silence tinged the color of a lie about a government acting in the best interests of its citizens.
And I move in the throng, carrying the eye of history. And it names each cluster of light Here. And it names each moment Now.
None of us knows what lies beyond this moment. We must move anyhow. For it is through movement alone that we make ourselves real.
And we know everyone is watching to see what will come of this spectacle of youth. We know that so many have named it mere anger, when in fact it is the resuscitation of hope.
I know that in this moment burns a dream that our souls’ desire —when strong enough to make us act — can move the structures our hands can’t touch. That what begins in body may resonate in mind. That it may remind the spirit of its responsibility to the moment.
And I know I must do right by those in whose name we move. I must make something to refer to, for when the world again makes such reference necessary. I must tell what I see. I must tell by seeing.
All photographs by Reginald Eldridge Jr. Chicago, IL.
Reginald Eldridge Jr., aka RJ EL, is the associate director of the Chicago Slam Works House Ensemble as well as a Teaching Artist with Young Chicago Authors, Chicago Slam Works, Chicago Danztheatre, and the Storyographers digital storytelling organization.
Originally appeared in The Offing: http://theoffingmag.com/enumerate/on-rising/
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